Violence is Only Half of the Fight
by maybealis
Summary: Harry Potter grew up in an environment that may not have welcomed him, but Petunia wouldn't hesitate to raise a boy that will screw with the Wizarding World. Lord!Harry Powerful!Harry Smart!Harry Both Dumbledore and Voldemort are bad. I don't own Harry Potter.
1. Prologue

There were three different ways to describe Number 4 Privet Dr. It is a very normal house, so to speak. The paint was evenly distributed, the windows were washed, the driveway was grime free. It had the same layout as the houses around it, down to the mailbox, which was situated exactly twenty centimeters from the road and a meter to the left of the driveway.

That is where the house is considered normal. Normal is only one description, after all. Number 4 may also be called unnatural. The grass surrounding it never lost its slightly dewy quality, shining under any weather; rain or shine, cold or hot. It also keeps its height, making it seem like plastic, the lush green it held only makes it feel faker. Anyone who had the courage, or stupidity, to come and pull at it would see it was real.

The flowers always grew perfectly, staying in the intricate shapes and patterns the gardener put them in, like how acrylic paint would go, and stay, as an experienced painter wanted it. They bloomed early, and stayed open for longer. The petals themselves were perfectly colored, the exact shades and hues as if they were all taken and dipped in the colors mixed at a local home decor store.

The house itself seemed to never fade, never get dirty, never weather. It was almost as if someone cleaned it with a water jet every night, spending hours to make every panel glean, coating it with polish, waxing it.

Of course, normal and unnatural are only two descriptive words, and this house would be described in three. The last word, the occupants of Number 4 would say is impossible, even fictional. Most would describe the house as magical.

And it was. It really was. Whenever it rained, or thundered, or hailed, it seemed as if the house only got the ends of it, or the lightest part of the storm. No one has seen it happen, but if a hurricane came through, it would go over Number 4 in the quickest way possible, until the eye of the storm hovered over it and would stay that way until the storm was over.

Anyone that wished to get out of the cold, or heat, simply needed to stand on the porch of the house, as it always stayed a nice 70 degrees fahrenheit, or 21 degrees Celsius. The backyard held the same temperature as well.

However, eyes would simply gloss over it if they weren't actively searching for it.

As for why this house seemed out of the ordinary, well, it was simply because of one little boy of the name Harry Potter.

 **Author's Note:** _Hey! I'm pretty serious about this story, but I don't usually have the motivation to write it / So. expect slow updates, and rather short chapters. I'm also working on a couple of other stories, that I will be posting in an undetermined time, so when I am motivated, this story only gets some of that motivation. I'm only writing this for fun. Reviews actually spur some of thaat motivation on, brlieve it or not._

 _I'm also looking for a beta, so please PM me if you are up for the job!_


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Petunia Dursley was not your average women. Of course, she was still perfectly normal, thank you very much. But normal and average do not have to be synonyms. She understood how the world worked and how everybody would see her husband and reflected it upon herself. And petunia was not stupid; she understood that most people would see her husband as lazy and as dumb as a brute because of his size.

She also understood that women were thought to stay at home and do chores and cook, but

Petunia was a smart woman. She found herself a job and not an undemanding one either. rather she worked as a bank teller, even if she was slightly preferred by most, heckled by men that wanted to put her down, and women who are glad to see her.

Waking up one morning, she slipped on her robe, and woke her husband, who had been sleeping next to her. Walking down the stairs, she quietly peeked into her baby's room - Dudley had a tantrum earlier that day, something over not having candy in the house. He cried the whole way to the market, and even more once he realized she was not there to buy sweets. Looking at him now, she could see that his baby fat was becoming into just fat. She told herself to scold Vernon. He loved spoiling the babe. How was a boy to learn restraint with such a doting father!

Continuing down the steps, she went to the kitchen. Petunia unloaded the dishwasher, finished scrubbing the cast iron frying pan, as she doesn't have time to do so the day before, dried it, and poured a new batch of oil in. After putting the pan to heat, the next step of her rather simple morning routine was to get the milk.

Once the door was open, Petunia quickly looked around the neighbourhood. Mrs. Number 8 had been sick lately, but she was out seeing her husband of to work. Across the street, Ms. Number 3 was washing her dogs while her niece chased her nephew with water balloons. Rather early for such young kids to be up, but she couldn't judge - they were active, yet quiet enough not to wake many.

Overall, a normal Sunday.

Petunia set the empty milk bottles on the baby lying in the basket. The basket that did not belong on her front porch. Petunia quickly moved the jugs, watching as a poorly insulated blanket pulled up with them. There was a small baby - maybe 20 pounds, around a year old - curled up in a too big jumper with small socks on his feet, and small, likely soiled underwear poking out of the sweater. A soft orange blanket dropped a few feet away.

Leaning down, she scooped the babe out, seeing a letter under him, but rather focused on the cold limbs, too cold for a child this size. With a small shriek - a terrible habit she had whenever something concerned her, starting long before, in her teen years - she scurried into her house and grabbed the afghan spread over the living room couch. Wrapping the baby, she strode to the kitchen. Carrying Dudley around had bulked up her arm muscles, and this small weight felt barely heavier than a stack of laundry.

Turning the gas stove off, she retrieved the letter and sat on a kitchen chair, rocking the babe in her lap. Once she got a good feel of the leathery paper, she realized with a dawning horror, the heavy parchment wasn't something you would buy at the local shop. She was almost certain it was wizarding parchment. Petunia remembered it - from when she brought in the mail on a certain summer day when Lily was eleven to Vernon's birthday card the Potter family had sent about a year ago.

Taking a deep breath, she dug her finger under the wax seal popping it off quickly. While she knew it was just the dormant magic in the thing that made it so easy, she'll ignore it and pretend she's just good at opening mail.

Mrs. Dursley,

What a pleasure! I don't believe I've written in 10 years! However, I'm not here for chit chat, and there are some rather somber topics for me to tell you. But none of them really matter! What's important is Harry!

So let me give you a run down: Dark Lord Voldemort has just been thwarted in the Potter Cottage, in a small village called Godric's Hollow; you've likely haven't heard of it. But Voldemort wasn't the only one killed. It brings me great sadness to tell you that your sister, Lily, and her husband, James, were killed by Voldemort minutes before his own death. Baby Harry has been left all on his own :(

In fact, Harry here somehow caused the death of the Dark Lord! And he has no place in the Wizarding World for another 9 or so years. Do take care of him for me!!

Ta-ta,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

P.s. Don't kill the baby, it would be quite disappointing if all my efforts go to waste.

"What?"

Petunia was losing it. She already guessed that the baby sitting in her lap was her own nephew, but the fact that Lily was dead had yet to sink through to her. At least it was a Sunday. Bankers don't work Sundays. Well, to be truthful, she worked only till noon, every weekday. Vernon was always extremely busy, working until evening before even thinking of coming home. Someone needed to be doing chores and taking care of Dudley, and they couldn't pay for a babysitter and a maid.

Harry gurgled in her lap, and looking down proved that he was waking up.

Shaking her head, she decided to start doing something instead of sitting in bewilderment at Dumbledore's horrid attitude. She never did like him, the doddery, pretentious wizard had always spoke like he was a God, and all of his manipulations would have no repercussions.

That's it! Petunia knew exactly what to do. She would raise Harry, just as Dumbledore wanted, but she raise him smart, slick, everything Dumbledore thinks he is himself. He would hate that. Of course, she would have to welcome Harry, if she wanted him to have 'muggle-exclusive' smarts, like logic. Wizards are extremely stupid at times.

Standing up, she let the afghan unravel and fall onto the chair, still holding the now warm child in her arms. Strutting the stairs, she quickly went to her bedroom. Vernon was still half asleep, sitting on the bed with his eyes staring unseeingly at the carpet. They really needed to get some wooden floors. Mrs. Number 2 had installed them a few months ago, and she said that clean up was much faster, and the only real con was how much her little girl slipped around when wearing socks.

Petunia handed over the baby to a confused Vernon, reading the letter aloud. By the time she finished, Vernon had realized that he was holding his nephew, and a weird look crossed his face. Plucking the squirmy - yet quiet, thank god - babe from his arms, she looked him straight in the eyes.

"We need to start planning."

 **So this is chapter 1!!** Sorry its so short, I was gonna add the planning but nkbowing me it woulda taken 6 more months and i didnt want yall (all like, 20?? 40?? of you) to wait!! Please review!!


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